love, fight, for justice, for equity,
let us never negotiate on human rights;
let us be kind to ourselves
in the process.
A resources for self compassion I have found incredibly useful: https://self-compassion.org/
November 21, 2020
Perspective
Some humans think in music —
others, think in words, silence in the middle.
Rhythm, beat, rat-a-tat-tat
That some humans can have a melody swim
into their consciousness,
one of their own design,
not a carbon copy from their Spotify Weekly, is a miracle.
Poets, we, too, are miracles
and, if you didn’t already know it,
well, god dang it, everyone’s a poet, in some way.
The way Linnea writes blue eye shadow
across each eye lid, bright blue lipstick pops
dressing up as a color in 2020: that is some type of poetry.
And maybe her ex saw her in a bathroom,
rubbing in the edges of blue paint,
and a song sprang into their mind,
out of the blue,
a miracle within a miracle about a miracle.
Here we are:
a “culture of scarcity,” it means you
cannot get enough, huh?
Enough pings on my phone, huh?
These four walls can feel so much
like four sides of a baby blue iPhone 5C case.
Did you miss the internet before it came to be?
Were you craving more connection in your free time?
Or was the internet it’s own type of white male savior,
Western horses trotting in, then charging, now stalling,
to bring the rest of us the right kind of peace
the right kind of freedom of information?
I will start in the middle of the line because I feel like it.
Emotional first, logical second. Get over it.
I am you, too, if you haven’t noticed.
I live by the sound of her smile—
white caves glistening with promised jewels,
pressing me to tell the whole world, I am gay, I am gay, and I am you
Who decided white skin that fries in the sun
rules the definition of light? No one could mistake
a human for a celestial object, could they?
Unless an ant grew tall and gained some much needed perspective.
The sun would say, We are all gay; we are all women
We are all ants in the universe, waiting to be eaten.
Image courtesy of https://photocontest.smithsonianmag.com/photocontest/detail/a-tree-from-an-ants-perspective/
October 16, 2020
Perfect Storm
What can I tell you about her?
She is bold.
When I met her I felt like
lightning had struck the chair —
I’ve written about suns before,
but this woman
is full human,
full knowledge,
full becoming.
She strikes when I least expect it,
becoming beauty
around all of its edges,
the tree branch, the trunk,
the roots, and the leaves,
falling, growing, knowing.
A home to many,
I’ve seen her talk to perfect strangers
with more patience and kindness,
curiosity than a bird, tending to its young.
The world is worth it, for her.
Oh, how I love that
in each walk, each sit down,
each moment we get caught up
in frustrations, annoyances,
this petty world has thrown at us.
Us. Collective. Like a hug.
She knows the word has many meanings,
that just because she is
lightning
doesn’t mean she can’t also be
the tree she strikes next to,
the middle of a perfect storm.
It’s a shame about the lower half of the face —
hidden to protect us,
even without masks —
so many smiles forced or creases half felt.
I know she feels everything.
I know she means it when she says,
“What about them?”
or, “Look at its bushy tail!”
or, “I love you, too.”
When I see her full face,
I know I am not only seeing truth,
inherent even in shadow,
nor one stepping into the light.
What I am seeing is the light —
she just knows how to make an entrance, first.
I am the thunder in the pair:
I am the edges,
wanting to see everything, shaking
your consciousnesses just a bit,
to remind you that we are here,
that we mean it,
and that we know, ground,
tree,
sky,
are worth it.
October 7, 2020
Beauty
Meaning in the mess
Challenges us to re imagine
our society.
Mini societies of the future?
What will they be left with,
what will our stonelore* be?
Documentation
storytelling —
perhaps this is the ultimate meaning
in an unavoidable crisis, change, destruction
metamorphosis.
“The climate scientists have done our jobs.
Now it’s time for the social scientists…”
How many stories
did colonization cost?
More trees than industrialization?
More unity than a caste system?
Beauty?
Oh, how lucky we are to still know
salty ocean smells and think of freedom
and not unrest;
the garden as a hobby and not survival,
one of many
foods holds a key
stories hold a key
sharing holds a key
there is no “the key.”
The man upstairs threw away that key
a long time ago. Didn’t ask us.
Didn’t think to.
Challenge is to think now
forward thinking
future thinking
where will you live when Long Island
no longer exists above sea level, at sea level?
Humans do not live, cannot live, under sea level, can they?
rain check on facts, deniers?
do you believe in mermaids?
Reality is irrefutable
not a problem for much longer; I see
orange skies in our futures
Beauty.
Imagine a world that respects life, big and small.
Define “respect.”
Define “world.”
Size is irrelevant when we talk about
stories. We need as many as we can
write
paint
narrate.
Reflection as first tool
as was the hammer
you can knock screws in or pull them out
How many screws did the man upstairs feed your brain?
screw up
You have not screwed up,
reader — own what you do, instead of more stuff.
Challenge the oil companies
enough is enough is enough is enough.
Challenge your dad, your uncle, cousin.
Remind their sub-conscience
that they are the bee, and the bee the flower, and a
polar bear may eat them if the fire doesn’t first.
How lucky we are to know a polar bear.
The pristine, white fur.
The sharp canines.
The perfectly irregular paw prints.
The meal.
The eater.
Define — run if you see a polar bear
or you’re already dead.
Final meal?
How lucky we are to know Yogi Tea
in mellow yellow boxes and scripted labels.
How lucky am I to write sarcastic comments
I’m serious
Will the future have rainbows?
How will light and air molecules refract,
bounce off of one another?
Document all of this.
Maybe it’s not nonsense
Maybe it’s our only hope of remaining whole
after we are gone
and cockroaches feast on my temple.
final meal: 100 acres of American grade corn and beef
reading a memoir on native genocide
I am serious now — your ancestors know
you we can do better
their stories are hidden in places
even a colonizer could not touch
even San Francisco fires could not light aflame.
In the midst of so much ash,
sprouts still push through.
Beauty.
Now, look under this rock.
Dig into the dirt.
And write.
feelings and (maybe not so) random thoughts after reading this article earlier in the week: https://www.nytimes.com/2020/09/22/climate/climate-change-future.html – including futures parrelel to the world in the Fifth Season, which I cannot recommend enough
September 22, 2020
Here, Again
(love) held me on this bench
at a different time —
a year or two past, September
from last spring.
I pop up from the ground
fall planting miracles around me
.
What an era.
What a time to be wearing a mask
with a knowledgable woman
who knows the names of books,
and shapes, and places she has never been
but dreamt of, seen
.
Of course I love you.
Of course this time is difficult, too.
Sickness taking families,
fires taking homes —
of course I want to laugh,
and yeah, I sometimes think of him
.
Celeste told me it’s an experiment, a discovery
.
(love) holds you to me like moss to a tree
while mosquitoes fly in slow motion
feasting on my body, itches the next morning
.
Presence with the body,
anxiety flying up and fading
the observant mind she has,
looking at every tree branch
as if it may be our last
scratching my skin — it’s expectations
holding on to rather than being held
.
I am here — rather, we are here
praying for more miracles
we are held by our mother;
what a miracle that we have two
life rarely flaunts; it’s rarely about power
it’s more about existence
.
How about I take a break from “about” and “because”
and hang out with “is”?
.
Joy doesn’t have to be reciprocal.
Joy lives in a single cup of a purple passion flower
with multiple frames and edges—
I opened up like its white, subtle leaves
and then the sharp, purple and white petals
that maybe always belonged in the ocean after all,
pollinator in the middle
.
I bore my heart;
I said what I needed to say and then I left
.
She’s just, beautiful.
A different journey, and of course I should not compare
but here I am, comparing.
What do I value? What is my nonnegotiable?
It takes an experiment to find out, Celeste would say
.
At any time of day you can find me here, with me—
with she, he, they — they all live in me,
as life lives in the Earth and beyond—
one can only dream of, now
.
Now, “Look!” as the miracle blossoms in front of us:
so often unexpected,
always on its way,
always growing,
always
here
.
September 13, 2020
Defining
Should I tell you how much I see in you,
or have you seen it in my eyes, first?
You sit across from me,
six feet apart, yellow lemons scattered
on the plastic pool between us.
Your quick glance to the side
when you’re thinking of what to say,
when you realize I am looking at you,
intently. Your lips two half moons parted,
night opening up in your mouth, certainty
in both the dark and the light.
How we are both deserving of great loves,
as we pitter patter around each other’s sentences,
blushing cheeks, my hand second guessing
its move to yours because
we are correct – we do deserve great loves.
I’m still defining the term.
Acorns fall on me from Long Island trees
promising fall is coming, is coming.
Do lyricists have the ending spelled out
when pen meets paper?
Linnea, I do not.
I just want to know what your heart is all about.
Look at the clouds — they move so fast today.
On your roof, they just stayed.
What do you see in the trees
when you look at them for one hour, two?
That’s how I fall for you;
Like a tree you have the leaves,
you have the trunk — you are steady
and able and still, balanced.
Linnea, I am so tired of the stars being read for me.
I want to see what’s in front of me,
not a 99 cent tapestry.
Maybe my serious face is the gayest thing about me.
I can see it on Adèle, too —
blonde hair, flowing, orchestra, rising.
Yes, I’d leave a party for you,
in humid summers and bitter winters.
I’d touch you till our tongues turn blue.
July 31, 2020
Complicit
Is this
worth it,
just for some
plastic?
Just for some
Made In China
labels?
Just for some
security
that was never ours?
Another
apartment
was renovated
in Brooklyn, yesterday.
3 generations
of bodies move on,
white faces walk in
and name
another place
their own.
Does the fountain
shower head
rain gold?
Is the comeless
sex with your husband
of nine years fulfilling?
Downtown Manhattan
lays on the back of slaves.
Where will you
lay your head tonight?
Will you join them?
August 6, 2020
Inventions
Think not of then,
nor of what could be.
Think of now.
I dare you.
Can you?
Consider it as it floats by,
untethered,
tethering you.
Thinking is an invention, no?
of our foremothers,
of species reconciling past and present
into future possibility?
No god nor head of state;
No hidden truths, no suffering to escape.
If time was invented
what is water: vapor, ice, rain?
If humans are sinners,
why hasn’t the devil won again?
What am I still doing here?
What are angels but stars,
and what are we
but fallen angels?
Consider astronauts.
Consider moonlit dawns.
Consider a smile on a newborn’s lips.
Are emotions invented?
If you ask, “By whom?”
and respond, “Earth,” maybe
you’re still wrong.
Asteroid belts:
I own one or more belts to hold up
these pants
Rock flung awry,
my home is one giant rock.
We have that in common.
Love:
Invented
or stolen?
Was love seeping out of molten,
displaced chunks, planet shapes
whipping themselves into a milky way,
setting itself a stage for new life?
Life.
Simply is.
Not a thought.
Sit with that.
Sit at home with that.
Wash your hands,
and watch as the stars flown down.
A weird rambling as society as we know it crumbles. Consider donating to the PDX Protest Bail Fund, here: https://www.gofundme.com/f/pdx-protest-bail-fund
July 24, 2020
hope
perhaps
you can fill me
with a little bit of hope
a little bit of sand paper
to smooth out the rough patches
on my living room wall,
my check bones,
my nation’s capital.
November is coming.
July 8th, 2020
Visibility
What is our greatest truth
if not love?
What is love
if not an act of being seen
whole, broken?
“We never have these conversations,”
my aunt says, over the phone,
after watching the video montage I compiled
for my brother’s 18th birthday: messages
from family about gratefulness and memories
and light. “You told me, that when you get
your driver’s license, you’d drive me to play
my numbers. And I’m looking forward to that,”
my Nana laughs, sticking her tongue out and smiling.
Grandma, grandpa, simple, lovely in their front yard,
naming truth like water spreading across a leaf,
far from home, yet alive, needed.
Aunts, uncles, cousins — they serve you doses of truth
in wholes and snippets. Remember swimming
in Aunt Mary’s pool? The cabana? The three acres
of clean, cut grass? The faint smell of chlorine
and whispers of PVC plastic?
Remember the last time I told you “your story?”
It will never be the last.
I meant to tell you
these conversations are not rationed.
They are not sanctioned
like men checked off a list, headed to war.
Visibility has no boundaries,
is the connection love hints at or points at,
depending on how brave we are.
For what is love
if not an act of being seen
whole, complete?
What is visibility if not
making the room for everyone
to be heard, to speak,
to share our stories,
no matter who we are, or where we come from?
What else, then, would it mean to say, “you matter”?
June 21, 2020
Reaching Joy 